


The Noble

by ntldr



Series: The SARMA universe [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: youngling Hot Rod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ntldr/pseuds/ntldr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are an infinite number of mechs who would have been better guardians than Sunstreaker.  One of them stood before the Autobot, offering him the chance to hand over his youngling to someone far more capable, and allowing him to concentrate on finding his twin.</p><p>Set in the SARMA comic series by greenapplefreak of deviantArt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Noble

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the SARMA universe](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/200179) by greenapplefreak. 



_((AN: Before you read, head over to greenapplefreak's page on deviantArt and familiarize yourself with her comics about Sunstreaker and Hot Rod.  The established universe will be difficult to understand without them.))_

Hot Rod winced as the panel over his abdomen was slid back into position with more force than necessary.  Sunstreaker barely murmured an apology, which ended in a growl of frustration as he checked the monitor next to the medical berth.

“At least your tanks aren't short-circuiting.”

“But you still don't know what's wrong?” the orange youngling asked.

“No.”

Hot Rod started to sit up, but a black hand on his chestplate pushed him to lie back down on the berth.  Sunstreaker's other hand flipped open a side panel on the youngling's upper arm.  One of his fingers transformed independently, turning into a jack, which he plugged into the hidden port.  Hot Rod jerked in surprise and the fast shock of another's electrical circuits, and curious blue optics stared at Sunstreaker, wondering what he was doing, until his HUD informed him of a new data packet waiting to be opened.

“What's that?”

“An anti-viral program.”

“...That's way too big to be a single program.”

“I happen to have come in contact with a variety of Decepticon viruses.  Comes with the job,” Sunstreaker said with a shrug.  

“But I already have an anti-viral program--”

“That hasn't yet seen malicious software.”

“But it's going to take--”

“Just run it.”

Hot Rod huffed through his vents, but did as he was told.  The data packet opened, and immediately set to work, scanning through the young mech's system for any trace of Decepticon programming that Sunstreaker may have encountered somewhere else.  The packet itself was huge, and Sunstreaker stayed plugged into Hot Rod for several more breems before disconnecting and letting the anti-viral run by itself.  

As soon as he did, and the program realized that it was running on another mech's systems, it hurried to find Hot Rod's native anti-viral program and install itself over it.  Hot Rod watched the process through his HUD, letting the more senior program do as it wished and giving it permissions for access to the rest of his databases.  Once settled, it continued its search even more rapidly, but it's background process took up a chunk of memory from his cortex, one that the youngling's frame was not used to giving out so readily.  His craninal circuitry was briefly overwhelmed, and Hot Rod groaned as he clutched his head with both his hands and curled up on the table.

“Great.  Now on top of everything else, I've got a headache.  Thanks a lot.”

Black fingers drummed on the top of his helm, and he couldn't tell if the gesture was supposed to be comforting, teasing, or an order for him to stop complaining about a minor ache.  Either way, it made his helm rattle.  “How much has it scanned so far?”

“29%.”

“Let it scan _everything_ without interruption, okay?”

“Whatever.”

His databases responded sluggishly to the program's queries.  Over the past several deca-cycles, he'd been finding it harder and harder to dip into his seemingly bottomless pool of energy.   He hadn't felt much of an urge to drink energon even when his systems required it, his recharge cycles were longer, and Sunstreaker had complained that it was getting harder to rouse him into online status.  The anti-viral program noted these symptoms and tried to find a root cause, searching not only for malicious software, but poorly-written code as well, something that was plausible for a new mech.

Sunstreaker had already been looking for any hardware that had failed as well.  His first and prime suspect was that there was something wrong with Hot Rod's energon rations, specifically diluted for the youngling's tanks.  The last time that Hot Rod had drank standard-grade energon had been an event of a babbling, over-energized youngling bouncing through the ship, followed by a disgusting amount of purge.

The Autobot had once pointed out the support beams that Hot Rod had climbed while in the over-energized state, and the orange mech had no explanation for how he'd managed to scramble up that high either.

But each of their rations were now perfectly logged, and Hot Rod had sworn that he hadn't tried to eat or drink anything alien (recently.)  The diluted energon was correctly mixed too, so it wasn't an issue of his systems rejecting it.  Nothing was overclocking and sucking up extra energy.  He had no injuries or repairs that were an issue, and as the Autobot had just confirmed, his circuitry wasn't malfunctioning.  Yet the youngling was exhausted, cranky, and far from his characteristically energetic self.  In the last cycle he'd begun to overheat as his systems started turning to tapping into energy reserves, and yet he still couldn't get more than half a cube down before complaining that he didn't feel well.  

Sunstreaker had done everything he could think of to solve the issue.  He'd stopped off at planets with a close orbit to their stars, and although Hot Rod _had_ been able to convert the solar energy and stabilize himself, the moment they were back on ship and drinking energon, he would deteriorate again.  Stopping at a planet every cycle to sit in the sun for him as an impossible solution. The golden Autobot had even taken him to the wash racks and scrubbed the youngling down himself, thinking that perhaps some alien material was getting in the way of his energon lines.  That had been an adventure by itself, with Hot Rod stubbornly batting him away, growling that he was too old to need someone else washing him, and Sunstreaker's horrified realization that Hot Rod had been ignoring grime in several places.  They'd finished with Hot Rod no healthier than before, and matching Sunstreaker's ire, but he was definitely cleaner.

“How's it now?”

“85%.  And my head _still_ hurts, thank you very much.”

The sight of Sunstreaker venting irritably and turning his head away was cut off as Hot Rod squeezed his blue optics shut against an especially painful surge as the anti-viral program demanded even more of his cortex's memory.  He obliged it, though with a muttered swear.

“Hot Rod?”

“...100%.”  He opened his optics to glare directly at Sunstreaker.   _”OW.”_

“Did it find anything?”

“No.  And let me repeat that.   _OW._ ”

He felt a new pressure at the back of his helm, then his shoulders, and it was after a moment of vertigo that he realized that Sunstreaker was helping him to sit up.  His tanks surged at the movement, small as it was.  It didn't help when his head bobbed forward on it's own and shocked him, an involuntary call for recharge working through his circuitry.

Something in his chest felt relievingly warmer when the Autobot's arm stayed around him, despite the overheating.

“Any new errors on your HUD?”

“No.”

“Abnormal tank readings?”

“No.”

“Low coolant?”

“No.”

“Pump pressure low?”

“No.  Primus, I'm starting to sound like _you._ ”

If Sunstreaker was offended, he ignored it for once.  “And you're certain you haven't been drinking any standard-grade energon again?”

“No, I would have told you the first twenty times you asked me that.”

“Hot Rod.”

Hot Rod squinted up at Sunstreaker, who was staring him down with a raised eye-ridge.  He glared right back and shook his head.

“I'm not lying!  I don't _like_ feeling like a half-dead retro-rabbit, and if I knew what caused this, I'd tell you!”

The Autobot considered him, his expression softening, then tightened into a grimace.  The arm around him squeezed his shoulders.

“I believe you.  I'm just wishing that you had come with a manual.”

It was Hot Rod's turn to vent, and it came out more like a snort.  The need for a recharge made itself known again, further encouraged by the comfortable warmth blooming in his chest. The feeling abruptly cut away, though, as Sunstreaker let go of him and turned towards the console on the wall.  The Autobot's fingers tapped at the keyboard quickly, and the local star map appeared on screen.  Several green dots appeared at sporadic intervals.  Sunstreaker considered them before choosing one that was close to their ship's position on the map.

Hot Rod hugged his knees as he watched him.  “What are you doing?”

“Plotting a course.”

“To where?”

“The nearest medical facility.  This one's in a Neutral colony.  It's worth the risk,” he cut off the youngling's startled objection.  “You need a trained medic.”

“...Am I going to offline?”  Hot Rod asked quietly.

“Of course not,” Sunstreaker assured him immediately.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

After Drega-5, Sunstreaker had allowed himself to be overly-cautious with anything having to do with Neutrals.  The colony on Therra-Revquis was orbited by a moon nearly a third of the size of the planet, and the Autobot left the cargo ship hidden on the moon's dark side, powered-down and cloaked from scanners, while he and Hot Rod took the lander down to the planet's jagged, cratered surface, the atmosphere constantly hot and dry under the influence of binary stars.  Even then he didn't land nearby the colony.  He kept a wide berth from any local scanners, landing behind the ridge of one of the largest craters, and the two of them transformed and rode along the rest of the way towards civilization.

Normally Hot Rod would be skirting back and forth along their route, exploring as far as he could until Sunstreaker commed him to stay close, the young mech bouncing along on his hover plates as he peppered the Autobot with questions.  But this time he rode at Sunstreaker's side, and slower than normal.  Every so often he would twitch, jerking left or right, then return to the yellow mech and huddle close to him, as if he were leaning on him, even as they sped along the dusty path.  Sunstreaker silently obliged him, their panels nearly touching, and he took some quiet relief when the youngling finally spoke up.

“...What are those?” he asked as low, mud-brown walls seemed to rise up out of the ground ahead of them.  “Mini-colonies?”

“Compounds.”  They passed by the wall unharassed, their low-slung vehicle modes unable to see over it, though they were able to catch glances of glittering rooftops and weaving steel structures, a sharp contrast to the earthen walls.  “Neutrals with a whole lot of credits, especially those from the Celestial Towers in Iacon, don't want to have to group themselves with the rest of the refuges from Cybertron.  They build their own compounds, fill it with all the luxuries of home, secure them, and pray that they can hold out and pretend that they're on vacation until the war's over.”

“Have you ever been in one?”

“Several.  But they were always blown apart by Decepticons by the time I arrived.”

Or Wreckers, but he wasn't about to tell Hot Rod that.

More compounds surrounded the colony, and Sunstreaker noted with a heavy spark that many of them had walls in disrepair, and through the holes he could see beautiful architecture that was mangled or neglected, or both.  The first one that they had passed seemed to be the only one untouched.  As the neared the center of the colony, where less affluent mechs had taken residence, more damage to buildings were apparent, and he hissed as he recognized the explosion of a shell that had caved the majority of a warehouse.

There were old and new signs of spacecraft landing and taking off, and abandoned vehicles were scattered everywhere.  Yet they had not seen another living creature yet.  He kept his scanners alert, disturbed by the unnatural quiet.  The abandoned building presented good hiding spots for an ambush.

“...Sunstreaker?”

“Almost there.”

The Autobot didn't want to give up hope until he was certain.  And yet, as they rounded the next corner, they slid to a halt, and Sunstreaker growled, while Hot Rod's engine stuttered.

The front sign naming the medical center was the only indication of what the debris used to be.  Worse, the Autobot noted footprints and overturned building materials, signaling that someone had already gone through the rubble and picked it clean of supplies.  More evidence of the movement of spacecraft lay to one side of the former building.

“Well...scrap.”

“Now what?”

Sunstreaker revved his engine moodily.  “We go back.  There's nothing for us here, not even a drop of energon.  Looks like the entire colony evacuated after an attack.”  He let his sensor net scan the debris.  “This didn't happen recently either.  The cargo ship must not have been informed that all the medics are gone.”

“What if there's someone buried under there?”

“Hot Rod.  This must have happened at least half a vorn ago.  If someone survived the collapse, they're not with us any longer.”

Hot Rod whined, but turned on his hover pads, back towards the path to the compounds.  But before they could set out, he groaned, then suddenly transformed, his legs wobbling as he clutched a nearby piece of rubble.

“Hot Rod?”  Sunstreaker transformed as well, and hurried over to the youngling, his optics wide as he put a hand on the orange mech's shoulder.  “What is it?”

“Gonna purge.”

His faceplates twisted into a wince as Hot Rod doubled over.  “You've only had half a cube of--”

_”Gonna purge.”_

The statement was followed by his engine warbling dangerously.  The Autobot swore, then snatched up the youngling, and moved him to lean over into a ditch instead.

It took a moment, and when he was done, Hot Rod leaned back towards Sunstreaker and shuddered, his plating rattling and far too warm. 

“Don't feel good,” he moaned.

“Obviously.”  None of his usual snark reached his voice. Instead he picked up Hot Rod again, more comfortably this time, holding him to his chest plate and letting the youngling wrap his arms around his neck and rest his head on his shoulder.  The smaller mech's grip felt weak, and Sunstreaker kept his arms wrapped around him as he walked towards the path out of the colony, transformations be damned.  It would take ten times to traverse the same distance on foot, especially at a walk, but he couldn't ask the youngling to transform in his state.

Hot Road groaned miserably.  “This _sucks._ ”

“Can you pull some solar energy while we walk?”

“I'll try.  'M tired, though,” he drawled.  “Am...I gonna offline?”

“Nope,” he replied firmly.

“Wanna...recharge.”

“You can recharge.  I've got you.”

He felt Hot Rod nod against his shoulder.  Panels on the youngling's arms, legs, back and chest came online and changed from a light-orange to yellow, converting the solar energy around them into a form that a Cybertronian could use.  It was nowhere as efficient as drinking energon, though, and only a short-term solution to fixing whatever was ailing Hot Rod.  He was still ill, still exhausted, and once they took off, he wouldn't be able to fall back on solar energy anymore.

Sunstreaker briefly wondered if he'd make it to the next viable planet.  He shook his head to banish away that thought.

“You'll be fine,” he said grimly, focused on walking, his optics still suspiciously glancing at the abandoned buildings.  He considered taking cover for a while, but Hot Rod was likely to worsen while he did.  “We'll get you to a medic soon.  Just hold on, okay?”

Hot Rod didn't answer.

“...Just hold on,” he repeated.  “We did _not_ come this far just so you can offline on me for Primus-knows-why.  You will be _fine_.”

The youngling still didn't answer.  But something else reached Sunstreaker's audials.

Someone was approaching from the opposite direction.

No, not someone.  Some _thing_.

Despite a universal agreement that all mechs were robotic, not all robots were mechs.  Many were drones; non-sparked and not sentient, no more than a walking computer.  One of them, spindly and two-thirds as tall as Sunstreaker, and steel-gray, was rolling his way.

The Autobot froze, briefly clutching Hot Rod tighter to him, his blue optics narrowed at the advancing robot.  He could easily tear it apart with one hand.  But it was making no aggressive moves, other than hurrying at them.

“What do you want?” he called out as the drone came in range.  The robot waited until it had come even closer, before skidding to a halt, and answering in a monotone voice.  It didn't have a mouth; the sounds filtered out of speakers on either side of its head.

“I was instructed to greet all new-comers to Therra-Revquis.”

Sunstreaker looked around at the rubble.  “That happens a lot?”

“There are those who still land here looking to trade, or needing assistance.  If you are in need of immediate assistance, Sigma can help you.”

“Sigma? Who's Sigma?”

“One of the last holdouts of Therra-Revquis.”  It's optics studied the form of the orange mech in his arms.  “Is your friend damaged?”

“Maybe.”  One of his arms swung to hold Hot Rod's head, as if shielding him from view.  “Is this 'Sigma' a medic?”

“No, but he employees one of the best.  Triage used to work at the medical station before the attack.”

Sunstreaker glanced down at the youngling, who was still unresponsive and barely gripping his neck.  Hot Rod's optics were off, his head bowed to the side.  The presence of a stranger hadn't done anything to rouse him.

“...Take me to them,” the Autobot said slowly.  “But no tricks.  You got it?”

The robot bowed its head, then turned, and lead the way back to the undamaged compound.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

If Hot Rod wasn't in such a critical state, Sunstreaker would have taken the time to be awed by his surroundings.

The building had been cared for by a small army of drones.  The reinforced but intricately-designed door led into a climate-controlled foyer, lined with precious metals, artwork, organic plants, and crystals.  The Autobot suspected that the crystals might have been recovered from Praxus before its collapse; they seemed to hum by themselves and grow louder when he stepped nearer to them.  The floor was as polished as a mirror, and skylights arching along the high ceiling filtered in natural light, their support beams lined with light bars for the planet's night cycle, such as it had one with two binary stars.  As they progressed, he spotted more doors, more rooms, more _smells_ , some of them organic, many not, but all of them pleasant.

More robots were scurrying back and forth inside, but Sunstreaker managed to keep track of the one leading him on.  Not that it would let him get lost; it stopped every so often and looked back at him, making sure that he had not wandered off, and only progressing when the Autobot stepped up close to it.  

A ramp descended further down into the planet, and when there was no more room for skylights, screens displaying video feed of the sky above covered the ceiling, making it feel like they were still outdoors, or at least nearly.  Tables held odds and ends and bits and pieces, and Sunstreaker was briefly glad that Hot Rod was in recharge and not able to try to grab any of it.

As soon as they were no longer touched by natural sunlight, Hot Rod's solar panels switched off, and Sunstreaker felt his arms slacken completely from his neck, though his head stayed limply supported against his shoulder. His pace quickened.

The robot turned right and led the way down another short hall.  This one ended in a pair of double-doors, which the robot held it open for Sunstreaker with another bow of its head, allowing him to carry Hot Rod right into a pristine medical bay.

Pristine...but mostly empty.  Besides another mech working on a patched robot on a table, a med bay like this in the Autobot army would be this clean because it had never been used.  Even Ratchet, detail-oriented as he was, did not have enough breems in an orn to keep everything immaculate.  But the other mech, tan and white and now turning to eye Sunstreaker warily, seemed to have his own bay ready for a showroom as much as a real working space.  A mask hid the majority of his face, and his yellow optic bar stared at the golden Autobot.

“...Can I help you?”

“Are you Triage?”

He nodded, the light behind his visor glowing a little brighter.  Sunstreaker got the idea that he was being scanned and stood still, though Triage's attention quickly went instead to Hot Rod.

“Is that--?”

“A minibot.”  He spoke quickly.  “Friend of mine.  We came to this planet looking for medical attention for him.”

The piece of the robot that Triage had been holding was tossed onto his workbench, instantly forgotten as he grabbed a tray of perfectly-laid tools.  “Put him on the first table.”

Sunstreaker immediately complied.  As he laid Hot Rod down, the youngling onlined briefly, groaning and pawing at Sunstreaker's arm blindly, trying to climb back up to his chestplate, before recharge overtook him once again and he lay limply on the table's surface.  Though they were in a climate-controlled area now, his plating was still far too hot, and his engine warbled, nearly stalling out.

Triage came up on the youngling's other side, though Sunstreaker stayed close as the medic assessed the orange mech.  He let the other mech work, but one black hand stayed on Hot Rod's and gripped his small fingers, and he grimaced when he didn't get a response in return, despite him grasping for the Autobot a moment ago.

“I was told that we have guests.  Welcome.”

The Autobot let out a startled rev and whipped around, his spare hand balling into a fist at the sight of another mech striding towards him from the door.  This mech halted as soon as he saw Sunstreaker's stance turn aggressive.  Silver and dark blue, a red cloak fluttered around his broad shoulders, and blue optics studied him intently before he risked stepping forward again, more slowly this time, his palms open before him to show that he was not armed, his footsteps almost supernaturally quiet.  He was slightly taller than Sunstreaker, and just as heavily armored, but strode with the sophistication of a master inside his own castle.

Sunstreaker squashed the feeling of shame and jealousy by meeting someone more polished than he was.

“Are you Sigma?”

The mech stopped and nodded regally.  “At your service.  And I would be enjoying to presence of...?”

“My designation is Sunstreaker.  I'm an Autobot.”

“Sunstreaker.  A pleasure.”  Blue optics drifted to the orange mech lying behind him.  “And your friend?”

“This is a youngling!” Triage cut in, snarling.  

The other two mechs stiffened, both sets of optics widening.  Sunstreaker turned back to put a protective hand on Hot Rod, leaning over him slightly and glaring dangerously at the medic.  But Triage ignored him as he continued his assessment, more hurriedly now.  His hand probed at the younger mech's arm until he'd found the panel hiding a port, and jacked in.  

“You brought a youngling out here?!” he snapped.

“He's malfunctioning, and I needed a medic!”

“A youngling...?”  Neither of the other mechs acknowledged Sigma.

“Malfunctioning _how?!_ ”  Triage was reminding Sunstreaker of Ratchet in one of his notorious fits more and more each breem.  His yellow visor flickered as he accessed Hot Rod's systems, and he didn't wait before answering his own question.  “Tank readings don't match their energy output.  When was the last time he had energon?”

“A quarter of a cube, half a joor ago.  He purged most of it up.”

“Not backlogged, otherwise his tanks would read that they were too high,” the medic murmured to himself before speaking up again.  “Circuitry issues?”

“I checked, everything was running perfectly.”

“Did he have anything besides low-grade energon?”

Sunstreaker shook his head.  “He swore that he didn't.  I don't offer him any standard-grade after the last time he tried it.”

Both Triage and Sigma paused.

“Wait, _last time?_ ”  Triage stared at Sunstreaker, bemused with a touch of rage.  “Why did you give him standard-grade?”

“...Because that's what mechs drink?” Sunstreaker would have spoken more confidently if the two other mechs weren't staring at him as if he'd admitted a heinous crime.  “I learned, and he hasn't drunk any since then.”

“Fine, but you did remember to flush out his tanks after that, right?”

Sunstreaker froze.

“...I...”

Triage's engine revved dangerously. “You left standard-grade in his tanks?!”

“Mechs can flush contaminants out of their tanks after a few orns, and Primus knows that he purged enough all over the deck!”

Behind him, Sigma made a noise like he was clearing his throat, then put a hand on the Autobot's shoulder.  Sunstreaker hissed and automatically swept him off, growling a warning, but Sigma stayed close by, and dropped his voice down, though it remained calm and even.

“Mechs can clear their tanks.  But a youngling may not be developed enough to, ah, evacuate anything foreign without assistance.”

Triage had unplugged from Hot Rod and stepped away to his workbench, grabbing bottles and mixing fluids into a spare cube.  Sunstreaker only took notice of him long enough to ensure that he wasn't making anything that could harm the youngling.  His optics stayed on Sigma instead, his stance tense, not because Hot Rod was in danger, but from embarrassment as he realized how stupid he'd been, and just admitted that to two strangers.

Of _course_ there would still be residual standard-grade in his tanks.  Anything that wasn't converted or purged would corrode at his tanks, until finally, and recently, the tanks had malfunctioned and couldn't convert even the low-grade energon.  They would continue to register that they were holding low-grade, but the mech would see no more energy than if he'd drunk _water._

He had nearly offlined Hot Rod for not catching that.  Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.  

Guilt gnawed at him all the way down to his spark, and he could feel it twisting in its casing, like a creature writing in pain.

“You truly didn't know that any residuals had to be flushed?”  Sigma asked, his voice gentle but wary at the Autobot's intense glare.

“...He didn't exactly come packaged with instructions,” Sunstreaker hissed at him.  “I've been doing my best.”

“As I can see,” the dark blue mech agreed.  “And you've done your best to solve a problem of which you had no knowledge.  But did you really not have any protocols for the care of a sparkling when he was--”

“He's not mine.”

“...Oh.”  He started to reach for Sunstreaker's shoulder again, then thought the better of it and pulled back.  “My apologizes.  I assumed, because he looks like—”

“Sunstreaker?”

The Autobot's attention snapped back to the youngling's weak voice.  Hot Rod was finally waking up, perhaps alarmed by being scanned by an unfamiliar mech.  Bleary optics stared up at the ceiling, refreshed, then looked to his left and he startled when he saw Triage approaching him with a cube of semi-clear fluid.  He squeaked, and tried to slide away from the strange mech, his hand gripping Sunstreaker's.

“Sunstreaker?!” he asked again, louder and more frightened.  

Sunstreaker's spark uncoiled from where it had been writhing and _flared._  

The sudden change shocked him, and before he could properly react, Sigma had slipped past him and put a hand on Hot Rod's helm.  The orange youngling jumped at the appearance and touch of a second stranger, and he looked to a bewildered Sunstreaker for reassurance against a growing panic before Sigma gently hushed him.

“Easy there, youngling, easy.”  His voice had dropped even lower, quiet and soothing.  “His name is Triage, and he won't hurt you.  I am Sigma.”

Clearly still weakened and dazed, Hot Rod still tried to push himself away from the medic approaching the table more cautiously now.  But Sigma's hand stayed on his head.  Two of his fingers rubbed soft circles around the side of his helm.  

“Easy there.  Calm down.  You're safe.  You're _safe._  Shhh...”

At first, Hot Rod squeezed his optics shut and tried to move his head away, grimacing as the movement seemed to cause him pain.  But, as Sigma kept rubbing in small circles, he slowly stopped moving, his optics remaining shut yet not as tightly, as if he were about to return to recharge.  The grimace slipped away as his jaw relaxed, followed by the rest of his body.  The desperate grip on Sunstreaker's fingers eased.  

The flare died down.  

Sunstreaker vented, just as surprised by it's appearance and disappearance.  He was ignored as Sigma pulled Hot Rod to sit against his arm, his other hand still massaging his helm, now with the heel of his palm, calming the youngling.  It was a gesture that the Autobot hadn't seen before, yet Hot Rod reacted instinctively to it, relaxing and leaning on a mech that he'd just met.

“Excuse me.”

Triage pressed past him, moving Sunstreaker to the side to hand the cube to Sigma.  Hot Rod's limp hand slipped from his fingers as the Autobot was crowded away.

He could hear Sigma murmur down to the youngling he was cradling, and Hot Rod's head bobbed in acknowledgment before he took the cube and drank it slowly.  His engine sputtered, wanting to purge again, but his tanks took the flush and he was able to hold it down.  That hadn't replenished his energy though, and when he was done, he put his helm against the dark blue chestplate, tiredly ignoring Triage plugging into him again to check that the flush had worked. Sigma's red cloak briefly fell over the orange mech, hiding him from Sunstreaker's view as the two newcomers cared for the youngling that he'd been dutifully guarding for some time.

His spark twisted again.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The scent of hot oil was the most wonderful aroma in the galaxy, in his opinion.  Not only would the oil lubricate joints and wash away the most stubborn dust, it also soothed worn panels and overused servos, and it's fragrance opened up olfactory sensors and made ventilation easier.  

It had been a long time since he'd sat in a hot oil pool.  No military station could afford one, not when washracks could clean a mech in a similar and cheaper way.  Primus, some of them didn't even bother to heat the water up.

Sunstreaker sank a little into the amber oil, submerging himself up to his shoulders, resting his head on the lip behind him.  The fluid was only a shade darker than his paintjob, creating the illusion that the mech was an extension of the pool.  Despite basking in the rare luxury, he was having trouble convincing himself to relax.

Triage had to overhaul Hot Rod's tanks, and although he was in perfect working order again, it would take some time for the youngling to regain his strength.  The medic had also insisted on checking all of his upgrades that he'd gotten since the Autobot had found him, as if Sunstreaker would be too incompetent to know how to install a comm unit or teach him how to transform.

Sigma had immediately offered his home to both of his guests, insisting on giving them a safe place to stay while Hot Rod recovered.  Now that the youngling was out of danger, Sunstreaker had allowed himself time to walk around the compound and appreciate what the noblemech had saved from Cybertron during the early days of the war.  Those _were_ Praxian crystals that he'd seen earlier.  He'd run his fingers over them, and been awed at hearing them change pitch by the presence of his electrical field.  He'd wandered around far too many planets with flora to be interested in the organic plants, but the art, Primus, the _art._

He'd found his own work among Sigma's collection.  He decided to hold off from telling the noble, though.  

But then he'd found the oil baths.  And now he was toying with the idea of doing a commission for Sigma in exchange for staying a bit longer to enjoy the hot oil.  It had been a long time since he'd tried to draw more than a scribble, but he was sure he could figure something out.  Even Hot Rod didn't know yet that he had more talents than the art of war....

Sunstreaker shut off his optics and tried to concentrate on the bath, but his thoughts drifted back to the youngling.

He'd nearly offlined Hot Rod from a stupid mistake.  Granted, he had been fixed, and an aggravated Triage had given him a short lesson on special maintenance for younglings.  Shortly after that he'd been bombarded with questions about the location of Hot Rod's carrier, how Sunstreaker had come to find him, and why he hadn't found a more suitable guardian yet.  He'd refused to answer most of them, especially not the last one.

It's exactly what he should have been doing, instead of making him a second priority to finding his brother.

_Stupid._

The ground vibrated behind his helm.  Sensing footsteps, Sunstreaker frowned and ignored the approaching mech.  He couldn't handle another inquisition about being the worst guardian in Cybertron's history.

The footsteps' tempo increased.

Something zoomed over Sunstreaker's head.  His audials picked up a faint “eeee!”, and he onlined his optics too late to see anything but the splash of oil in front of him.

“Oh slag--”

Oil smacked into his faceplates.  He winced, spat out what had gotten into his mouth, and shook his helm angrily, his headfins scattering drops of the warm fluid everywhere.   The pool rippled in front of him, and whatever had splashed in was sinking fast through the amber liquid.  It took Sunstreaker a moment to identify it, and when he did, he gasped and pushed off the side of the pool as he dove in after it.

He broke the surface a second later with Hot Rod, the youngling sputtering but otherwise looking pleased with himself.  “This is warm!” he exclaimed with a grin.  “I like it!”

“What in the nine Pits did you think you were doing?!” Sunstreaker's submerged engine gave a muffled roar, even though it didn't intimidate Hot Rod anymore.  

“Sigma said that you had been in here a long time, and that I'd like the oil pool too.”

“It's more enjoyable when a certain mech isn't trying to drown himself! Have you forgotten that you sink like a piece of iron?!”

“I'm getting better!” Hot Rod protested.

“You can practice where you won't offline yourself.  Come on.”

Keeping an arm around the youngling, Sunstreaker swam backwards, dragging Hot Rod along the surface until they'd reached the side of the pool again, the youngling floating along beside him now that he had something to hold on to.  He shifted to let the orange mech cling to the pool's edge instead and patted it.

“There's a step under the oil here.  Stand on that.”

Hot Rod did so, while Sunstreaker sat back down on it, stretching to rest his elbows on the ground behind him, the oil lapping around his chestplate.  He was far too wound up to enjoy the pool anymore.  His engine still reved in irritation, and he narrowed his optics at Hot Rod while the youngling crouched down until the oil was at his chin, his fingertips touching the step as he determined how much room he had to practice swimming.

“...You're feeling better,” the golden Autobot observed absently.

Hot Rod nodded, his faceplates briefly dipping below the surface.  “Had a full cube of low-grade as soon as my tanks got fixed.”

“Good.  No more scaring me like that, okay?”

“Okay.”

He pressed his faceplates underwater again, the orange and yellow kibble on the top of his head raised up like a tiny island above the oil.  A swarm of bubbles floated up, followed by Hot Rod's head. He grinned to himself, then ducked under again, blowing bubbles and then popping up to see them surface.  The third time he dove down entirely, laying on his belly on the seat, and blew as hard as he could before jumping back up and watching the surface ripple before the swarm of bubbles followed, giggling at his new trick.

Now that he was certain that the youngling wouldn't try to drown himself again, Sunstreaker allowed himself to slide down the side, the warm oil working tiny miracles on his joints and plating as it reached his upper chest.  He still kept a close optic on Hot Rod though, wary of him trying to journey into the deep end before he could swim properly, and as he did, a thought occurred to him.

He'd felt his spark flare before, when Hot Rod had cried out in alarm at seeing a strange mech.  All mechs knew better than to ignore a sparkling or youngling in distress, and that was before Megatron had wiped out the youngling colonies.  But it wasn't his cortex, his mind, that had reacted so strongly and startled him, it was his _spark_.

The only other mech his spark would react like that towards was Primus-knew-where across the galaxy, probably just as worried as he was.  
   
It baffled Sunstreaker as to why it had happened with someone else.  He and Sideswipe had been together since creation, but he'd only known Hot Rod for a relatively short time, and not all that well.  He'd known other Autobots for far longer and not reacted like that.

Still watching Hot Rod practice swimming, he decided to try a little experiment.

His spark sent out a pulse.  It was something that Sideswipe, and no one else, would have been able to 'hear,' if he had been nearby.  It wasn't much, just a call for attention, the equivalent of saying **(hey)** to his twin.  He felt silly for doing it when he knew that his brother wasn't in range to answer, but it wasn't for Sideswipe anyway.  

Hot Rod paid no attention to him, his back turned to the Autobot as he tried to dog-paddle, and grunted when he sank right back down to the step instead of floating.

Sunstreaker tried again, a little 'louder' this time.  

He still received no response.

He shook his head, and leaned his head back on the lip of the pool as he gave up.  It had been dumb to try.  The connection between sparks that he shared with Sideswipe was special.  He couldn't just repeat it with some youngling that he happened to be guarding.   _Stupid,_ again.  

His spark fluttered on it's own briefly, as if it could fling itself out of its casing and find Sideswipe by itself.

“What's wrong?”

Sunstreaker hadn't realized that he'd offlined his optics.  Hot Rod was suddenly closer to him, swimming forgotten as worried optics assessed the Autobot.

“...I was thinking about where to go next once you're back to full strength,” he lied.  “We're wasting time by staying here.”

Hot Rod huffed.  “You're enjoying yourself.”

“Yes, but this is a temporary rest stop.”

“You don't want to stay?”

“It's tempting.  But I'm an Autobot, and we're in a war right now.  I need to get back to--”

“You miss Sideswipe.”

Sunstreaker paused, his optics staring down at the younger mech.  “...As I said,” he enunciated slowly, “we're wasting time here.”

The youngling scowled.  “It's not my fault that my tanks malfunctioned.”

“Pretty sure those are _your_ tanks, not mine.”

“That's not fair!”

The two of them glared at each other.  Sunstreaker stayed seated, his arms resting on either side of him along the pool's edge, coolly daring the youngling to continue the brewing argument.  Hot Rod grimaced, then hissed, failing to keep his composure as Sunstreaker could.  

“Triage said that it's not my fault that you're a bad guardian!”

Sunstreaker's eye ridges shot straight up.  “...He and I are going to have a talk,” he growled.

“Are you even my 'guardian?' Is that just a pretend-word?  You're just some mech that found me and got me off-planet.”

“Would you have rather that I left you behind?”

“No! I mean, I dunno—ugh!”  Hot Rod smacked a hand at the oil.  “You could have just—I feel bad that you have to look after me when you want to go find Sideswipe! I want to help, but I feel like a dead weight on board sometimes!”

“...” Sunstreaker stared at the youngling, who looked like he was trying to hold off a mounting tantrum, unable to communicate his frustrations with the Autobot.  “You're not a dead weight,” he relented before Hot Rod could try again.  “You're still just a kid...and that can't be helped.  I'm sorry.  It's not your fault that your tanks fritzed.  I should have known better.”

“You should,” Hot Rod agreed, crossing his arms.  

His twin was the one better at dealing with other mechs.  Apologizing was hard enough for Sunstreaker, who preferred to spend as little time as possible interacting with mechs that he irritated him, which was practically everyone.  But he couldn't just walk away from Hot Rod, who still looked hurt, his scowl redirected at the oil's surface.  

What would Sideswipe do?

“I'll make a deal with you,” he said after thinking for a moment.  “You try to give me some lee-way on not knowing how to be a guardian, and I'll...try to stop being an aft to you?”

There was a beat as both mechs mulled over the half-baked proposal.

Hot Rod refreshed his optics, and then his expression changed, the corners of his mouth perking up, though his arms were still wrapped around himself.  “You're an aft, no matter what.”

Sunstreaker raised one of his arms in a frustrated half-shrug.  “I'm doing my best.  We both are.  Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Fine.”  He leaned his head back on the lip again.  “Now let me relax.”

“Aft.”

“Hrmph.”

He heard Hot Rod cackle to himself, then turn and splash around, returning his attentions to the pool. Venting a sigh, he stared up at the ceiling high above, and tried to return his thoughts to...what had he been thinking about before?

Oh yes.  He was a terrible guardian.  He briefly imagined that Sideswipe was beside him, and what his brother would say about the situation.

**(Eh, there's been worse.  The kid's not offline yet.)**

Somehow, that did not make him feel better.

Primus, he missed his twin.

He shut off his optics again, trusting Hot Rod to not try to offline himself in the same pool, or at least to stay close, should he attempt to drown himself again.  As he drifted into a light recharge, he missed noticing his spark sending out a pulse involuntarily, and Hot Rod automatically moving closer to his side.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Sunstreaker double-checked the provisions stacked on the hover-sled. “...This is generous to the point of ridiculous,” he muttered, staring at the piles of energon cubes and boxes of other supplies.  “Are you really sure you want to part with all this?  You barely know us.”

“I have plenty.  Why not share with those who need it?”  Sigma shrugged his cloak off of his shoulder as he adjusted one of the cubes that a robot had stacked incorrectly.  “Besides, the energon well of this planet will be depleted within the next several vorns.  I'll be leaving soon enough, and I won't be able to take everything with me.”

Sunstreaker's optic ridges shot up at that, and he forgot about batting Hot Rod's curious hands away from the supply boxes.  The youngling was almost completely healed, and just as spirited as ever, to where the golden mech's new worry was that he would break something while tearing through Sigma's compound, earning the end of the noble's good graces and leaving them, or more specifically _him,_ to owe credits or a favor.  Surprisingly enough, despite what Sunstreaker knew of mechs and femmes from the Celestial Towers of Iacon, Sigma was more than patient with the youngling, pleasantly answering his barrage of questions about all the items he owned, and showing him what he could play with and what must be handled with care.  Hot Rod was clearly enchanted by the mementos of a planet that he never knew, and elated that Sigma wasn't as easy to frustrate as Sunstreaker.

A budding idea that Hot Rod would be happier with a new caretaker died when he realized that the compound was to be abandoned.

“You have a ship?”

Sigma nodded. “It'll take some time to get it in working order again, and I have plenty of resources, and hands, to help me.”  He gestured to a drone stacking another box on the sled. 

“What's in this one?”  Hot Rod reached to open the lid to answer his own question, but a black hand pushed his fingers away.

“Hot Rod, not now--”

Sigma spoke over Sunstreaker.  “Extra switchboards.  Leftovers, really.  They may come in handy, if you should need to rework a console.”

“Sunstreaker already re-wired a console.  We got some game chips from an asteroid station, and Sunstreaker lets me play Warriors of--”

“He's got plenty to keep him occupied,” Sunstreaker cut him off.  

Sigma nodded.  “I'm sure, I'm sure.  However...”  He made a show of pressing a hand to his chin, as if thinking hard about something.  “...Hot Rod, I'd like to talk to Sunstreaker privately.  While we speak, why don't you collect anything else that you like and want to bring with you?  If you can carry it, it is yours.”

Both the Autobot and youngling looked startled by this, and glanced at each other.  Hot Rod was the first to understand that Sigma was serious, and his face lit up as he turned back to the noble.

“Really?! Anything?!”

“Anything.”  Sigma smiled warmly at him, and rubbed the top of his helm, a gesture that was smooth and natural to the dark-blue mech.  “I'd rather that my belongings be put to good use in a youngling's hands than to degrade in a lonely home over however many vorns it takes for this war to be over.”

Sunstreaker squinted one optic at the larger mech.  “That's...awfully generous...”

“C'mon, Sunstreaker, please??”  Hot Rod grabbed his forearm and pulled at it.

“Watch the finish,” he growled.

“I won't take anything bad, or loud, or stuff that you don't like! Please? Please-please-please-please?!”

Sunstreaker gave Sigma a long, exasperated look as Hot Rod pulled harder.  Sigma chuckled.

“I mean what I say.  He can have anything he wants.”  His voice took a more serious inflection.  “And I would like a private word with you, if you'll indulge me.”

“...Alright,” Sunstreaker relented. “Go on.”

“Yes! Thank you!”  Ignoring the Autobot, Hot Rod rushed forward to Sigma, and wrapped his arms around the mech in a crushing hug.  The noble had only a second to guwaff once, his laugh raising an octave as he was squeezed, before returning the gesture, his palm still rubbing the youngling's head before moving to his back and scooting him towards the far corridor.

“Now shoo.”

The orange mech raced off, already knowing what he wanted.  Sigma watched him go, then schooled his face as he turned back to Sunstreaker, who stared warily after the youngling, not trusting what he would bring back.

“Walk with me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The door to the archive room had barely slid open before Hot Rod squeezed through, eagerly jogging over to one of the walls.  The entire room was circular, well-lit by yellow light panels on the ceiling, and where there were not doors, the walls were entirely lined with shelves and bookcases, with several round tables scattered in the middle.  Multi-colored pads, drives, books, and even odd roll-shaped things that Sigma had identified as 'scrolls' filled every inch of space. It would take eons to read them all.

Hot Rod head right to what he was looking for.

Skidding to a halt in front of one shelf that was conveniently a comfortable height for his small size, he pulled out a pad, onlined it, and briefly skimmed over it before slipping it into his subspace pocket.  His hand reached for a book next, old and worn, and meant for a species that was not Cybertronian, but with Cybertronian text on the cover.  This was skimmed as well and put away, and the process was repeated for more pads and drives, few of them needing to be put back before Hot Rod moved on and 'adopted' the next piece of literature.

Sunstreaker had been trying to keep up on his 'academics,' whatever the frell that was.  Mathematics would never be a problem for the fast processors of Cybertronians, but things like language studies and history had served little use for him when surviving alone, and what he remembered before being stranded had mostly been forgotten.  Sunstreaker had caught him up the best he was able, and now that they were visiting more planets with civilized life, a need to communicate had trumped his wants to stay in front of the console all day and play video games.

He'd been in this room before, and Sigma had immediately guided him to this particular shelf. Everything on it was easy for a mech his age to read and understand, and he'd spent one orn on the ground, cross-legged, pouring over a book until Sunstreaker had come looking for him.  And now, he would get to own these pads and books, and read whenever he liked.

He made a mental note to not tell Sunstreaker that many of them held workbooks on their back, meant to reinforce the readings with practice.  Hot Rod wanted to learn only what he needed, not be stuck at a table practicing stupid word problems over and over again.  As he thought about that, he happened to open a page of a workbook.

His happy, frantic motions slowed.

Somebody had already scrawled in this workbook.

Somebody with handwriting nearly as bad as his.

Hot Rod's hand stayed on that book's page as he hesitated, stumped as to why someone would have gone through the trouble of filling out a workbook for knowledge that Sunstreaker claimed that most mechs already knew.  It made no sense, unless Sigma had also hosted a particularly dumb mech.  And even if he did, it would be more like Sigma to give a visitor a half-used book than to insist that he put it back on the shelf.

After a moment of consideration, he shrugged, subspaced the book, and reached for two pads that were leaning on each other.  When he did, something hidden between them fell into his palm, and he startled back, at first thinking that something had popped out at him, before realizing that he was holding a small note, the writing illegible.

No, not a note, though the material was old and felt like scrap.  He flipped it over, and his optics widened.

Sigma was there, his dark colors faded in the old picture, but nothing could ever change his stance, or the broad, proud smile on his face.  Another cloak, made of a different material than the one he preferred, fluttered around his shoulders in an invisible breeze, frozen forever.  Cradled in his arms was some sort of green-and-tan mechanical ball, partially hidden by his cloak.

Hot Rod needed to refresh his optics before he realized that the ball was a curled-up youngling, smiling brightly at camera, his blue optics shining.

Text had been re-written at the bottom of the picture.

_'My little Damper.  May your spark shine as brightly as the stars in the night sky, forever.'_

Hot Rod's spark suddenly dropped lowly in it's casing; he'd invaded something dear and private, from a mech that had done nothing but care for him and his guardian for the past several orns.

The picture was immediately replaced, the pads shifted to allow the picture to hide unseen between them.  Hot Rod managed to see their titles as they were shifted, and though they were story books, he didn't dare pick them up.

He felt the urge to replace everything he'd picked up, as if he were a thief caught in the act, even though Sigma had given him permission to take whatever he wanted.  And he _did_ want the notepads and storybooks, but...they weren't his.

Nothing on this shelf was his.

No wonder Sigma had always been so good at knowing how to treat him kindly.

The door on the other side of the room re-opened, and Hot Rod jumped, his pump tripling it's speed, until he realized that he was facing Triage. The Neutral medic cocked his head to the side as he studied the youngling through his yellow visor.

“Didn't mean to startle you, kid.  You okay?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“You look like you've seen a formed-energy ghost.”

“...I think I did.”

Stepping closer, Triage peered at the shelf that Hot Rod was standing near, then huffed through his vents as he realized what the youngling had found, the sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.  His arms crossed over his chestplate and rumbled as he focused on the worn pads and books.

“Ah. Damper.  You would have liked him.”

Hot Rod looked up at the medic.  “You knew him?”

“Everybody at the medical center did.  He was always sneaking over there from the compound, looking for playmates.  We couldn't give him much attention, but...well, we did our best.”

“Where is he?”

Triage didn't answer him.  Hot Rod waited, and when understanding dawned on him, he cringed.

“I'm sorry.”

The Neutral medic shook his head.  “Don't worry about it.  Anyway, I wanted to check on how you were doing.  Did you find everything that you wanted to bring with you?”

“I...think so.”  The orange mech patted his hip, where his subspace pocket was hidden, though he briefly wondered how Triage had already known that Sigma had allowed him to take anything he wanted.  “I won't take anything else.  These are Damper's things, not mine.”

“Are you sure?”  Triage leaned over, his voice suddenly low and serious.  “This is the only chance you'll have to take them with you.”

Hot Rod refreshed his blue optics.  “I...no.  No.”  He shook his head.  “I would feel bad.  Sigma should decide what he wants to do with these, not me.”

“Noted.  Hot Rod?”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry.”

It happened too fast for his young processors to comprehend.  Something hit him, hard, and he was sprawled on the floor, the shelving rattling next to him.  There was a heavy pressure on his back, making him wheeze through his intakes and grimace, and he felt his wrists seized.  A second later they were pressed tightly together behind him, and he couldn't move them apart, not matter how much he wriggled.

“Triage?!”

The medic only grunted as he locked the stasis cuffs.

Hot Rod's optics grew tremendously huge.

“...SUNSTRE—Hrrmph!”

Something sticky clamped over his mouth, cutting off his cry.  He smelled Flexi-plex, a medical tape used to patch field wounds.  His shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the gag, then wailed as Triage dragged him up off the floor and threw him over his shoulder.  Despite the youngling's muffled screams and desperate kicks at the air, he apathetically ignored him as he quickly carried him to the door.  

A drone cleaning the hall's floors ignored the cacophony as the medic turned to the right, away from where Sunstreaker and Sigma had gone, one arm around Hot Rod to keep the struggling young mech from falling off of his shoulder.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You know just what to say to that kid to make him happy.”

Sigma smiled to himself, his hands clapped behind his back as the two mechs walked the halls at a lackadaisical pace. “I've had practice with my own.”

“...Oh.  I, uh, didn't know.”  Sunstreaker had the sense to look embarrassed, then even moreso when he realized why the other youngling had never been seen.  “I should have guessed.  I'm sorry.”

The noblemech's smile faded away.  “It's been vorns since I lost Damper.”

“Damper?”

“The same attack that leveled the medical center...Damper was away that day.  He always loved the hospital.  Said that he wanted to be a medic too once he got his upgrades.  After the attack...Triage tried to save him.  I will be forever in his debt for the attempt alone, though he blames himself for not being able to save him.  He was just...too far gone.”

“Is that why Triage works for you?”

Sigma nodded.  “He was one of the few survivors from the medical center.  Most of the colonists on  Therra-Revquis fled after the attack, and the medics went with them.  I...did not want to go.  Triage stayed with me.”  He vented a sigh.  “Luckily, with only the two of us drawing for the energon well, we've been able to stretch our resources for a long time.  Other ships have landed, hoping to find a medic, so Triage does what he can, and I supply them with provisions.”

“And I thought you were being so generous because you liked Hot Rod,” Sunstreaker replied.  “You and Triage saved his life.  I can't thank you enough.”

“No need.”  He paused, his footsteps slowing until they stopped.  “However...”

“...However?”  The Autobot halted as well, an icy feeling spreading through his circuits.

The noble mech looked at war with himself, as if fighting what he wanted to say, before he took a swift intake and locked optics with Sunstreaker.  “You do care for him.  I have no doubts about that.  Yet you do realize the danger that you're putting Hot Rod in, correct?”

Sunstreaker had been expecting this for some time now, yet he needed to take a second to mentally steel himself for the conversation anyway.

“Nothing I do, nor what anyone can do, will stop the war from happening all around us.  I know I'm not qualified to be a guardian for him in any way.  Frag, I don't _want_ to be the one watching him all the time,” he admitted honestly, “but there is no one else who could guard him from Decepticons as well as I can.  At least not until I find an Autobot base.”

“And how long will that take?  How many...'altercations' will you have with the Decepticons until Hot Rod is in safe hands?”

“'Altercations' is a nice name for it,” Sunstreaker snorted.  “I'm glad that you don't know of who I am.  The Decepticons do, and they think twice before standing in my way.”

“So you would continue to expose Hot Rod to violence?”

“You say that as if I have a choice.”

“You do have a choice.”  Sigma swept is cloak back as he gestured with one hand to the grand hall around them.  “I am more than able to guard him for you, while you return to the ranks of your Autobots.  He will be in an environment meant for the growth of a youngling his age.  Most of all, he will be _safe._  I know you do your best, Sunstreaker, but would it not be wiser for Hot Rod to be where the Decepticons would never find him?  They've already destroyed this colony's medical clinic; they won't be back.”

“You said that you were leaving.”

“In the next few vorns, yes.  This is not my only compound.”

“And you think the Decepticons will never find you again?  You think you can hold them off with _drones?_ ”

“Why would the Decepticons turn their attention to me, when they're more bent on destroying the last of the Autobots?”  He stepped closer, and his voice lowered.  “I am no fool.  Your faction has been steadily losing ground.  The Decepticons have lost interest in the Neutral colonies.  They will make a final push against you soon, won't they?”

That was what all the evidence that Sunstreaker had found on their journey suggested: the stockpiling of energon, the movement of troops, the lack of patrols around Neutral territories.  Still, he clenched his jaw, and narrowed his optics at Sigma.  “And we'll hold them off, as we always do.”

“Perhaps.  And if you fail, then they may do worse than capture and reformat Hot Rod if they find him within your base, carrying a weapon.  You're putting a young mech in the line of fire, Sunstreaker.”

“I will protect him from anything.”

“You are not immortal.  What happens to Hot Rod when, not 'if,' _when_ you fall?”

The battle shortly after they'd left Drega-3 popped into his mind.  Sunstreaker grimaced at the memory of being strapped down and helpless, watching Hot Rod struggling in the grip of a Decepticon.  They'd survived, thank Primus, but barely.  He'd failed, and it had only been Hot Rod's bravery and ingenuity that had saved them.  

The next time he failed, they might not be so lucky.  Sigma caught the pensive expression on his faceplates and pounced.

“You hold his spark in your hands in every battle.  If you die, he dies with you, if not by being shot, then when the Decepticons reformat him and turn him into one of their own.”

“You underestimate how well that kid can make a stand by himself,” Sunstreaker retorted.

“And he's learned well from you, thank Primus.  But he's too young to understand that he is _not_ you.”

“I didn't code the kid's lack of fear.  That's his carrier's fault.”

“That's not what I mean at all!” Sigma replied sharply, his patience finally starting to weaken.  “You may not have seen enough other younglings to know that mechs his age aren't supposed to have as many warfare upgrades! His armor is shaping to resemble yours.  He's supposed to be perfecting his transformation modes right now, not learning to fire a gun!”

“How is that my fault?”

“Your presence is the cause.”  He raised a hand as Sunstreaker growled, offended, and the noble mediated his voice.  “Rather, the presence of your _spark._  Hot Rod has had no carrier to look after him in some time, am I correct?  A young mech's spark is not meant to exist in isolation.  It will seek out a presence to guide it and care for it, to no conscious knowledge of his processor, and neither to yours.”

That was news to Sunstreaker, and some of the aggression in his stance vanished.

“What?”

“It's...primal, I know, but it will happen, if it hasn't already.  His spark will listen to yours.  It will learn from yours.  And yours...it is concentrated on fighting.  So what will Hot Rod learn?”

“...He'll learn how to fight,” Sunstreaker reasoned, but his own spark felt heavy, as if it had discovered that it was betraying his frame.  “He'll...”

“He'll learn how to be violent.  He'll learn how to kill.  As a warrior, you have learned how to block any empathy for your enemy during a battle, correct?  Would you impress on Hot Rod the same mentality, while he's still young and establishing who he _is?_ ”

“...He's...he's smart,” Sunstreaker tried to explain, though not as effectively as he'd hoped.  “He knows better than to become a...a monster.”  His head snapped up; he hadn't realized that he'd turned his gaze down to the floor before.  “I can be a nightmare when I need to be.  But he won't be like me.”

Sigma spoke softly, his voice tinged with sadness.  “It's already begun.  You're a fool if you don't see it.”

And, the more he thought about it, the more he did finally understand.

The youngling's armor had changed, becoming thicker, looking more like Sunstreaker's construction.

He wanted to know more about the Autobots, especially Sideswipe, who could behave just as horrifyingly as Sunstreaker on the battlefield.

He had a morbid fascination with things that younglings had no right to ponder.

“...By Primus.”

Sigma's hand went out to steady the golden mech's shoulder, and it was only then that he realized that he was wobbling on his feet.

_STUPID._

“You're doing him more harm than good for every moment that you stay near him, Sunstreaker.  You were trying to do the right thing, and I know, and I understand, and I appreciate how well you've protected him.  But--”

“I would be betraying him if I left him here,” Sunstreaker interrupted.  He grimaced, then pushed Sigma's hand off of his shoulder.  “If he's that attached to me...how much harm would it do to him if I left him behind?”

“No more than if you kept him at your side.”

“...I can't do that.  He'll think that I abandoned him.”

“He'll understand, eventually.”

“No.  I can't.”  Sunstreaker shook his head.  “I'll...I'll concentrate harder on finding an Autobot base.  ANY Autobot base.  But somewhere where I can find him again.  Not in some _backwater_ compound.  No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I had the ability to just drop him off as soon as we got to a Neutral depot.  I didn't, because if something happened to him by the hands of someone who saw him as a blank disk to reformat, it would be as if I left him in an Insecticon nest.  And since then...No.  I'm sorry, Sigma.”  He backed up a step and shook his head again.  “No.”

“...I understand,” the noble mech replied, slowly.  His optics switched off as his shoulders rose and fell with a long intake of air.  “You're attached to him, as much as he is to you.”

“I'm not his carrier.”

“No.  But you are a good guardian.”  Sigma's optics switched back on.  “I have one last argument to make to change your mind.”

He stepped away, and gestured for Sunstreaker to follow.  The golden mech hesitated for a second before doing so, his footsteps echoing on the mirrored floor a few steps behind the snapping of Sigma's cloak as the noblemech strode down the hall.

They'd reached Sigma's personal office after a few more doors.  If his domain was littered with Cybertronian artifacts, than the planet's most cherished treasures found their way closest to where he spent most of his time.  A model of Cybertron hovered in the center of one table; a stack of Praxiun crystals hummed a tune on another.  The walls were lined not only with paintings of the Iaconian skyline, but ancient, worn maps of the old wards.  A long line of photographs of different viewpoints around Cybertron littered the side of his desk, while the other half was taken up by a smaller console computer, which is what Sigma headed straight for.

After inputting several commands, the console spat out a memory stick into his palm.  He considered it, then ran another command line on the console to dim the lights of the office.  Before Sunstreaker could ask why, Sigma held out the memory stick, and let it project a holographic image in the air.

A star map of the galaxy hovered above the two mechs, as if a smaller universe was dangling from the ceiling, the glow of stars in it's center as bright as a lamp before their optics.  The spiral arms twirled in a slow dance, the millions of tiny dots of stars clumping together as they followed along, while the stragglers twirled in the empty space by themselves, sometimes merging with in arm, sometimes being ejected out further into the cold darkness of space.

Several dozen dots were highlighted in different shades of color.  

“What are those?” Sunstreaker asked.

“One of the last ships to come by before yours was an arms dealer.  I asked him for his opinion of safe places to go when it was time to finally evacuate Therra-Revquis.  He gave me a map of the most recent hotspots in the war, which I will carefully avoid.”

Sigma pointed to the dots.

“These are the active Autobot outposts that he noted to me.”

Sunstreaker's jaw dropped.

Autobot outposts.

 _Active_ Autobot outposts.

And some of them were nearby, within several lightyears.

His processor whirled with ideas.  He wasn't the most popular mech among the Autobots, but he would never be turned away.  Active outposts, especially ones that were repelling Decepticon attacks, would surely have access to more general databases and communications with other stations.

He could find Sideswipe.

Sure, he might have to attach himself to a remote station for a while, and transfer, but that would be easy to deal with.  A wise commander knew better than to keep a pair of twins separate for too long.

He had a treasure map leading back to Sideswipe.

His spark flared.  

For a moment, he thought it was from elated excitement, but shortly afterward, his tanks felt like they had flip-flopped.  

Something felt horribly, awfully wrong.

“Sunstreaker?”

He realized he was wobbling on his feet again, and he shook his head to try to clear out the feeling of dread creeping through his circuits.

Excitement, that was it.  Joy having a path back to his twin at last was overcoming him.

Wordlessly, Sunstreaker offered his hand for the memory stick.  And just like that, Sigma pulled away, the holographic map cutting off instantly, leaving the Autobot stunned.

“I've been as generous as I can be for you, Sunstreaker.  But now, and for this one time, I have a condition.”

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Triage nervously paced back and forth as he spoke into the communicator held up to his audial.  “Yes, I'm serious.  You think I would have contacted you if I wasn't?”

He was silent as he listened to the voice on the other end, then spoke up again.

“Our coordinates haven't changed.  But we'll be long gone by the time you arrive.”

Silence.

“Yes, yes, anything you want to take.  Just as long as you let us pass by.”

Silence.

“Our ship isn't big enough to transport anything like that.  The energon well and the compound are yours.  All we'll have are myself, my patrician, and some energon to carry us over until we reach our destination.”

He kept pacing, and on his next pass, he grazed his fingertips gently over the top of Hot Rod's head.  The youngling glared at him and shrank back from his touch, or at least as well as he could.  His hands were cuffed together behind the chair, and the seat's safety belts kept him from wriggling away.  That didn't stop him from trying, the cuffs rattling as he did, and Triage sent him a warning glare before continuing his conversation.

“Nothing more than some unhappy drones.  Though we've had an Autobot wandering around this area.  I think he's got a ship nearby, if you want to try shooting him down before he retaliates.”

Hot Rod's optics widened in shock.  The Flexi-plex clasped over his mouth stopped him from making more than muffled squeaks of protest, but even to that, Triage hissed quietly and pressed his palm over his mouth too, silencing him further.

“Yeah, he's armed.  Been a real pain in my tailpipe for the past few orns too.  Anyway, we'll be in the air first, long before he gets to his ship.”

He side-stepped as Hot Rod tried to kick him.

“I'll send along our ship's frequency.  See you soon.”

He snapped the communicator closed, subspaced it, and let Hot Rod pull his head away from his hand.  The youngling tugged at his cuffs violently, and tried to shout at him, though it came out as mumbled yelps.

“Sorry, kid, but I knew you wouldn't be to happy about hearing that,” Triage drawled, his stance more relaxed.  “Couldn't let them know that you're here.”

Hot Rod growled a response, and shook his head, trying again to dislodge the gag.

“I can do something about that, now that I'm done.”

Bending over, he held the orange mech's chin with one hand, and took the corner of the Flexi-plex with the other.  He pulled the medical tape off in one expert motion, knowing he'd done no harm to the youngling, despite his yelp of surprise.  As soon as he could speak again, Hot Rod shrieked at him.

“You're bringing Decepticons _here?!”_

“They'll let the ship pass by them in exchange for everything in the compound,” Triage reasoned to him coolly. “There's no reason for Sigma to stay here anymore.”

“So you'll just give up everything to them?! You told them that Sunstreaker was here!”

“He's an Autobot.  If he's half the warrior that he seems to be, he'll fight them off, and buy us time to get some distance from the planet before the Decepticons get the idea to turn around and follow Sigma.”

Hot Rod flailed his legs, but Triage had stepped out of his kicking range.  “You can't do that to him! You helped us! You can't just use him has bait!”  He winced and froze with a gasp as his struggles twisted his shoulder's socket.  Triage noticed and gripped his arm tightly.

“Stop it.  You'll hurt yourself.”

“Sunstreaker's going to rip you apart when he finds me.”

Triage considered the shocking amount of venom behind the youngling's tone, then carefully modulated his voice when he responded.  “He will definitely destroy me, should we ever meet again.  But he won't find you.”

“He will!”

The door behind them slid open, bathing the darkened room with light.  Triage immediately lifted his head, frowning, while Hot Rod tried to look over his shoulder, then squirmed in the seat when he failed to see more than just a long shadow.

“Sunstreaker?” he asked tentatively.

There was a pause. Heavy footsteps rang through the room, the shadow moving closer  Triage stood up straight again, and obligingly took a step back as a dark hand gripped Hot Rod's chin and moved his face towards the new mech.  Sigma's faceplates crinkled as he studied the youngling.

“Are you sure that he wasn't hurt?”

“Positive.  Frightened, but not hurt.”

Hot Rod grimaced and shook his head away from the noblemech's hand.  “I'm not frightened of either of you!” he spat.  “Let me out of this chair, and I'll show you why!”

“Yep, he's fine,” Triage drawled, crossing his arms.

The cuffs rattled again.  “Let me up!”

“While you're behaving this erratically?”  Sigma vented a sigh.  “I'm sorry to have to keep you restrained.  Perhaps you'll calm once we take off.”

“...Take off?”  Hot Rod felt his energon run cold.  “You said you had a ship, and that it would take time to--”

“I haven't been entirely honest with Sunstreaker.”

“...Where's Sunstreaker?” he asked, trying to hide the shake in his voice.

“Gone.”  

The bigger mech turned away from him to check the row of consoles along the front wall, the line of monitors above them dark and silent.  Triage followed after his employer.  Hot Rod stared at them as they worked on booting up the computers, then growled and reved his engine, trying to get their attention.  The rev came out as barely more than a high-pitched shriek, and was unheeded.

“Where's Sunstreaker?!”

“I told you.  Gone.”

“Gone _where?!_ ”

“Back to his ship.”  Sigma's fingers tapped along the console controls. “He's left you in my care.”

“That's slag!”

The noblemech froze and looked over his shoulder, his expression appalled.  “Language, youngling!”

Hot Rod ignored him. “He wouldn't leave me with you!  He wouldn't leave me with anybody! Cut the slag and tell me where he is!”

“On his way back to his ship. Or the lander to his ship; I never did determine if you came here in a shuttle or an entire cruiser.”  Sigma glanced back at the console.  “He took my advice that the best course of action would be to leave before you could become aggravated by our decision.  I gave him the provisions that he'll need to reach the Autobots, and he agreed that you should stay with me.”

“That's not true!” Hot Rod cried.  “Sunstreaker wouldn't do that!”

“I don't expect you to accept our decision immediately.  As I said, once we leave the planet, and you understand that Sunstreaker is not hiding in a storage closest somewhere, you will understand--”

“You don't know Sunstreaker, if you think he'd abandon me!”

“I will not argue this with you, Hot Rod.”  Sigma turned to Triage.  “How long until the ship is ready to take off?”

“Less than half a joor.”  The medic hesitated.  “...The two of you will have plenty of supplies to wherever you want to go.”

Sigma's blue optics widened.  “You're not coming with us?”

“The Decepticons destroyed the medical facility.  They made Therra-Revquis nearly uninhabitable.   _They took Damper from us._ ”  Triage finished the command line he'd been typing, then stepped back from the console, his shoulders hunched.  “It was twisting my spark to not scream at them while they were on the comm.  I told them that there would be two mechs on the ship, in case their scanners pick up Hot Rod's bioelectric signal. I intend to meet them with a rifle when they land in front of the compound.”

“...The drones aren't strong enough to hold off an entire battalion,” Sigma murmured.

“I know.  But if I can injure even one of those slaggers, my spark will be at peace in the Matrix.”

“I can't stop you, can I?”

“Not without wasting resources you could be using to escape.”

Sigma grimaced, then forced himself to school his face as he offered his hand.  “It's been an honor, Triage.”

“The honor's all mine.  Thank you for everything, my friend.”

The two of them clasped arms briefly, and before more could be said, Triage walked around the larger mech and headed towards the door.  As he passed Hot Rod's chair, he rubbed a palm on the top of his head.

“Sorry about not letting you say goodbye to Sunstreaker.  Stay out of trouble, okay?”

Hot Rod shook his head hard to fling his hand off.  “Sunstreaker's coming for me! Just wait until he figures out what you did! He'll--”

“Hot Rod.”

Sigma's voice held an authoritative boom that the youngling had never heard before. Automatically he shrank back in his chair, not even knowing why he was suddenly alarmed.  Triage shook his head and muttered something to himself as he left the room, the door sliding closed behind him.

Sigma continued in the same tone.  “I won't have you speak ill to a mech who is about to die, and has only helped you since you've known him.”

“He kidnapped me!” Hot Rod spat back.  “He tied me up, and dragged me here, to—“

Something beneath the floor rumbled, like an engine coming to life.  Sigma turned back to the monitors as each one of them finally lit up, first displaying a white screen, and then focusing on exterior cameras, as if the line of monitors was one long window.  Hot Rod's vocalizer halted as he, at last, realized what kind of room he was in.

“This is a ship's bridge,” he breathed.

Sigma returned to the console.  “I do hope you grabbed everything you wanted when I gave you the chance.  As soon as Sunstreaker has left the atmosphere, we'll be on our way.”  He pointed to one of the monitors, and the plume of kicked-up dirt marking the path of a vehicle.  “He'll be gone by the time I've prepared the ship for take-off.”

“...Sunstreaker?”

Hot Rod's weak voice did not change the vehicle's bearing.  The youngling's throat felt thick, and he tried again.

“Sunstreaker?”

Still no answer, no change in direction, nothing to indicate that the golden mech would return.

The youngling's ventilations picked up, and he stared at the monitor, his face horrified and disbelieving.  Sigma was taking advantage of his shock to go through the pre-flight checklist, but the orange mech had forgotten that there was anyone else nearby.

He felt his spark fluttering frantically.  His optics squeezed shut, and he curled up the best that he could while restrained.

“Sunstreaker, please come back...”

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

His spark felt _awful._

Sunstreaker tried to ignore the sickening feeling of dread, betrayal, and failure that kept echoing through his processor and circuits.  He focused instead on recalculating the distance to the lander and his estimated time of arrival, making sure to add in the speed reduction caused by the extra weight of the sled of provisions that he was towing.

Four breems.

His spark continued to feel like it would gnaw it's way out of it's casing, scurry over to his processor, grab it and shake it until it ordered the mech to turn around.  His processor was already running as if this had happened, and logically and calmly explaining that leaving Hot Rod with Sigma had been the best choice for everyone.  Sigma had once had a youngling of his own, knew how to raise one, and had plenty of resources to do so.  Hot Rod would have a knowledgeable and caring guardian to watch over him until he was ready to strike out on his own.  Maybe if he decided to join the Autobots, Sunstreaker would see him again someday.  Sunstreaker would be free to continue the search for Sideswipe, no longer having the burden of--

No.  Hot Rod was not a burden.  He was _never_ a burden.

Three breems.

In the short time that they'd known each other, the little slagger had worked his way into his spark.  He'd brought an energy and joy back to Sunstreaker, after slogging around the galaxy in a fruitless search for his twin.  There were times that he'd nearly given up looking, despairingly calculating the chances of finding his brother, or better, finding him _alive,_ and wondered if it might be better just to curl up in a ditch and rust.  But with Hot Rod, he had a new reason to keep going.  

Now he had a better chance of finding Sideswipe.  He didn't _need_ Hot Rod anymore.

Two breems.  The lander pinged his sensors, and he readjusted his bearing slightly to head right for it.

He wanted to stop, take the memory stick that was tucked into the sled behind him, and throw it across the dusty planet.  He felt like he'd traded Hot Rod for Sideswipe.  Primus knew how desperately his spark missed his twin.  And yet it was at war with itself, raging and thriving, flaring every so often, and he had to forcefully try to quiet it as he concentrated on driving.  But it kept flaring, over and over, like an insistent alarm.  With each klick of distance that he made between him and the compound, the flaring grew weaker, but was replaced with a tank-rusting feeling of _wrong._

One breem.  He could see the lander.

He'd left without saying goodbye.  He knew Hot Rod would think he had abandoned him.  He trusted Sigma to be able to explain things to him in a way that he never could.  

He was a terrible guardian.

He'd been a bad influence on his spark and processor.

He'd taught a youngling how to fire a weapon.

...He'd taught him how to defend himself.

He'd rough-housed with him whenever possible, even at the cost of his paint finish.

He'd told him grand stories of the Autobots, and the adventures and trouble that he and Sideswipe got into, which had awed the youngling until he demanded at least one story before recharge.

He'd taught him how to hot-wire a console, how to play cards, how to cheat, how to pretend that he didn't secretly have an advantage in a game and then how to whoop and celebrate when a plan came together.

He'd repaired more broken fingers, twisted joints, scrapes and scratches that he could count that weren't on his own frame, and he thought that he might have been around Ratchet too long, because he'd taken to ranting at Hot Rod whenever he got hurt for a stupid reason, the youngling usually snarking right back at him with an attitude that he would do as he pleased.

He'd spent many recharges with the youngling sprawled on his chestplate, unable to sleep on his own berth for whatever reason, be it nightmares or something scaring him that day or a combination of both, and the orange mech would calm down once he was lying close to Sunstreaker, his spark pulsing warmly and shushing the smaller ball of light--

“Oh, _bolts_ to this.”

As the lander's cargo door opened, Sunstreaker slammed on his brakes hard and spun around, his aftplates screaming as the hover sled tugged dangerously at him, inertia causing it to spin even harder.  He detached it, and the sled was slingshotted into the lander, slamming into the far wall with a hard _THUNK_ and nearly overturning it.  Before the doors had even closed, the golden Autobot was already roaring off in the other direction, much faster now that he wasn't dragging a load, his comms frantically giving the lander's auto-pilot directions to fly back to the cargo ship and wait there for further instructions.

A few breems later, his sensors picked up the lander shooting off into the clouds, straight out of the atmosphere, and he noted that it's take-off had been smooth before he concentrated all his sensors on the path in front of him, dedicated to finding the fastest route back to the compound.

His spark kept flaring, but the feeling of dread was going away.  Mostly.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

There were drones wandering around the outside of the walls of the compound as the ruined colony came into sight.  Sunstreaker did not decrease his pace, intent on bursting inside and finding Hot Rod immediately, hopefully before he'd realized that the Autobot had attempted to leave him without as much as a goodbye.  The nearest drone looked up towards his advance, its spark-less optics staring him down.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sunstreaker mumbled to himself.  “'Welcome to Therra-Revquis, let me take you to Sigma,' I know the drill...”

The drone lifted its arms towards Sunstreaker.  It's clawed hands disappeared, and were replaced with the barrels of laser cannons.

“...Oh slag.”

The golden Autobot swerved to the side, avoiding the burst of laser fire kicking up the dirt where he'd just been driving, his tires screeching from the sudden change in direction.  The commotion grabbed the attention of the other drones, who, upon seeing what they thought was an intruder, transformed their own weapons and fired on him as well.  The small drones were not built to be efficient defenders, and their gunfire was meant to deter pests, not blast through armor.  That didn't mean that a swarm of them wouldn't hurt.

“The Pit is wrong with you?!” Sunstreaker roared, fishtailing back and forth as he dodged the worst volleys exploding to his left and right.  “It's me, Sunstreaker! I was just here!”

The drones did not answer him.  The Autobot hissed a swear, which turned more venomous as the turned-up rocks pelted his armor, leaving tiny dents along his sides.

“Fine! I'll show myself in!”

Ignoring the ones on and near the wall, he headed right for the gate instead.  The drones were too stupid to think to close the gate, or maybe that wasn't possible given the wall's age, but they did try to flood the bottleneck, creating their own road hazard, all with their weaponry aimed at the intruding Autobot.

Sunstreaker barreled right through them, the screeching of metal incredible compared to the peace from a moment ago.  Bits and pieces of the drones went flying over his windshield and roof, scattering everywhere, one of the little robots scrambling to find a handhold on his plating before it sailed away.  He twisted left and right, making sure to hit and break all of them, his tires digging those that had fallen the closest to him into the ground.  They were not sparked, and did not cry out as they broke apart, barely even having the chance to look surprised.  Pieces of the group lay everywhere, rattling on the ground, then were scattered again by the gunfire of those still on the walls as they tried to blast the golden Autobot, who was driving right down the ramp and through the open doors into the compound.

“Don't have time for you glitch-heads!” Sunstreaker yelled behind him.  “Make sure you have Triage give you guys a once-over! Pretty sure that your processors are fragged!”

And then suddenly Triage was there, coming around the corner of a hallway, his jaw dropped open when he recognized Sunstreaker roaring towards him across the polished floor.  He barely had time to refresh his optics before grimacing and pulling out a rifle from subspace, kneeling and taking a shooter's stance on the ground.

“Stop where you are!”

“Triage, it's me!”

“I said stop!”  He fired once, directly at Sunstreaker's bumper.  It missed as the Autobot threw himself to the side, transforming in the air, and slid into an enclave between two pillars, his optics huge and nearly white from how brightly they were glowing.

“The FRELL, Triage?!”  One of his hands transformed into a blaster, and he pressed his back against the closest pillar, wincing as another shot from the medic broke off part of his cover by his shoulder.  “The Pit is going on?!”

“We thought you were gone, Sunstreaker,” Triage's voice echoed through the hall.

“I almost forgot my youngling.”

“You gave him up.  Go back to your ship, and get out of here.”

“Not without Hot Rod.”  The golden mech shifted his weight and turned his head left and right, looking for any other cover that he could dive to around him.  There were more pillars between him and Triage, which he could use to advance, but the medic could take advantage of them too.  One of the tables nearby had overturned, its contents scattered and broken on the floor.  He didn't have time to mourn the broken Praxian crystals, though the table would make a fair barricade.  “Where's Hot Rod, Triage?”

“I'm not going to warn you again.  Get out.”

“And you _really_ don't want me asking for him again.”

Calculating his odds against the medic and making his decision, Sunstreaker burst out of cover and sprinted forward, leaping over the table without stopping.  Triage wasn't military-trained, and was caught in the open, shocked that the Autobot had taken such a risk.  Sunstreaker ducked under his first few wild shots, then dove behind the next closest pillar before shooting back.  He could hear Triage's vents rasping as he hurried into a different enclave, nearly hit by Sunstreaker's retaliating fire.

“I don't want to hurt you, Triage.”  Sunstreaker peered around the side of the pillar, his blaster leveled at the medic's hiding spot.  “You saved Hot Rod's life.  But if you don't tell me where he is in the next half-breem, I'm going to be very, very _cross,_ and Hot Rod can tell you why no one wants to get on my bad side.”

Triage's voice rang out.  “He's with Sigma.”

“And where's Sigma?”

“He's leaving.”

“...Sigma said that he would stay for several more vorns.”

“Hot Rod would be more secure somewhere else.  Somewhere that the Decepticons won't be able to find him.”

Sunstreaker gritted his dental plates.  “Or Autobots, you mean?”

“He shouldn't be part of this war!”

“So you're going to pretend that there isn't one, until the Decepticons come knocking again, and destroy more than just a medical facility?!”

Triage didn't answer.  Sunstreaker moved slightly further out of cover as he shouted towards him.

“The Golden Age ended a long time ago! I want the best for that kid too, but he'll be completely unprepared for the war if you hide him away in some compound! He shouldn't have to understand as much as he does, but he _does,_ and all Sigma will do his make him miserable by pretending that he's the same as a youngling from before the fighting started!”

“Maybe, but Sigma will be the guardian that you never can be.”

“Sigma is not _me._ ”

“Thank Primus for that.”

Triage chose that moment to try to take a few pot-shots at the Autobot, then let out a horrified yowl when he saw that Sunstreaker had already halved the distance between them.  His first shot clipped the golden mech's shoulder, wrenching his arm back, but Sunstreaker was barely slowed, spitting out a curse as he fired back.  His own blast hit Triage's upper leg, sending the medic sprawling backwards across the floor.  Before he could raise the rifle again, Sunstreaker was upon him.

The gun was knocked out of his hands, and a second punch cracked his yellow visor.  Triage had only a second to gasp before one of Sunstreaker's hands grabbed his audial horn, forcing him still, a knee digging into his chestplate and holding him to the ground, while the blaster glowed in front of his faceplates as it cranked up with an ominous hum.

“Tell the drones to stand down,” Sunstreaker hissed at him, “and start answering my questions.”

Triage glared back at him, though the Autobot had the impression that with his visor cracked, he was half-blind, the light behind the broken glass focused above Sunstreaker rather than at him.  He sneered, then winced, something at the side of his helm sparking as he activated his comms.

Somewhere beyond them, the frantic scurrying of whatever drones were left ceased.  One of them rolled in at a casual pace and, seeing the broken Praxian crystals, started sweeping them up, taking no notice of one mech pinning another.

“Now, last time.  Where.  Is.  Hot Rod?”

Triage's vocalizer crackled, and he opened his mouth to answer, then stopped.

“...You're too late,” he croaked, and smirked.

“What?”

The floor rumbled.  It wasn't enough to throw Sunstreaker off, but it startled him, then moreso when it didn't end.  Around him, the tables and artwork frames were bouncing around, the delicate items they held clinking together, some in danger of breaking.  Something else crashed to the floor, and the lone drone scurried after it.

The flaring in his spark lit up to a full-blown panic.

“They're already gone.”

The Autobot hesitated for half a second.  Then his weight left Triage as he bolted up, sprinting past the drone, back towards the doors and the ramp leading outside.  From the floor, the medic shouted to him, his vocalizer scratching, his leg refusing to take his weight as he tried to stand.

“You won't be able to catch up with them!”

He was ignored, the golden mech's feet pounding on the floor as he scrambled up the ramp and burst outside.  The noise and the shaking were even worse out here, and the air was smokier than he remembered.  The drones were dutifully back at work, not noticing the crestfallen look on Sunstreaker's face as he turned and watched a space cruiser taking off from the back of the compound.

His spark flared over and over and over.  Each time, it was weaker.

Blue optics stared up at the cruiser as it roared off into the sky, growing smaller by his perspective.

Sunstreaker's mind scrambled to process a hundred thoughts at once.  If he recalled the lander right now, it would still take too long to return to the cargo ship and chase after the cruiser.  He'd been too late. If he'd stayed on the lander, maybe he'd be back on the cargo ship right now, but he wouldn't have been able to know that Hot Rod was on the cruiser.  Hot Rod was gone.  He wouldn't be able to track them unless he was at the controls of the cargo ship.  Sigma had tricked him.  Hot Rod was gone.

_Hot Rod was gone._

His spark twisted as painfully as if a giant hand had reached inside of him and squeezed.

And then, for some odd reason, it calmed.

**(Think we can catch up to them, Sunny?)**

Sunstreaker twitched.  “...Sideswipe?” he whispered.  The drones around him continued to work in silence.

 **(At that velocity?  We'll probably overshoot, and be target practice the whole way down.)**  His own voice.

**(Aww, c'mon Sunny! Put some faith in your equipment!)**

**(I have faith in my ability to accelerate to a planet-hop and hit nearby planetoids, not a Seeker at cruising altitude.)**

**(Pretend it's Starscream's ego, and you won't miss.)**

**(Heh. Point.)**

The cruiser could barely be seen now, rising higher into the atmosphere and barreling through the clouds.

**(See, Starscream didn't stick around.  That's Thundercracker for you, and Skywarp for me.)**

**(...Alright, aft-for-brains.  Have you considered how we get back down?)**

Sunstreaker stared at the smoke plume left behind, calculated the cruiser's bearing, velocity, and its estimated positions in the next few breems, then checked his own fuel reserves.

**(We force them down.  That's the whole point of Jet Judo.)**

**(And if they force us off, like last time?)**

A rarely-used facemask slid into place.

**(I'll catch you.)**

**(Frag right, you better.)**

**(Last one on his Seeker has a rotten cortex!)**

Sunstreaker braced himself for the sudden acceleration, felt something _incredibly_ hot under his feet and back, and then the compound was below him, growing smaller each passing second.

From where he was limping to the doorway, Triage's broken visor only managed to catch a burst of golden light.

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The rumble from the booster engines cut out, leaving the ship eerily quiet.   Sigma was carefully studying the screens in front of him, trying to see where Sunstreaker's lander had gone, and when he could not find it, he mumbled something that sounded like a swear before tapping on the console, adjusting the cruiser's bearing.

Hot Rod's optics stayed on the planet that was changing from a flat, brown plane into the curved edge of a giant marble.  He didn't know why he was staring in that direction, when he knew that Sunstreaker was already back on the cargo ship.  

His spark felt like it had curled up in the back of its casing, as if trying to hide.  His tanks threatened to purge.

He gave the handcuffs one last, half-hearted tug, then slumped in the chair.  Hearing the noise, Sigma looked over his shoulder towards him.

“Are you alright?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“I want Sunstreaker.”

“He's gone.”

“He wouldn't abandon me.”

“He _is_ gone.”

Hot Rod ducked his head down.  “...Are you going to reformat me?”  He hated that his voice was shaking.  He was not afraid.  He was never afraid.

“...I know a medic even better than Triage.”  Sigma kept his own vocalizer calm and reassuring.  “It won't hurt at all.”

“Will I remember Sunstreaker?”

“It's important that you don't, so that you can move on.”

...He was _not_ afraid.

His intakes hitched, and he didn't remember closing his optics, only that he opened them again when he felt a hand on his shoulder and another on the top of his helm, rubbing him soothingly.  Sigma was kneeling down in front of him as he tried to hush him, the console left unmanned and quiet while it ran on auto-pilot.

“Easy, now.  It's alright, it's alright.  It's not going to hurt, I promise.  And when it's done, you won't feel as bad anymore--”

Hot Rod refused to look at Sigma's optics.  Instead, he lifted his head to look over his shoulder, at the monitors.

A flash of gold caught his attention.

“--know a fine tutor as well.  There's much that you need to catch up on--”

The flash turned into a ray.  The ray turned into a beam, curving, changing it's course, headed right for them.

He felt his spark perk up.

“...Sunstreaker?” he mumbled hopefully, ignoring the small, calming circles that Sigma was rubbing on his helm.

“Sunstreaker? No, he can't be with you any longer.  You'll need to...what are you staring at?”

Sigma finally looked to where Hot Rod was focused.  His optics grew wide.  The beam was bearing down on them.

“...H-He wouldn't,” he gasped.  “That's madness.  That's...that's suicide!”

The proximity alarms went off.  Stumbling away from Hot Rod, Sigma returned to the console, and frantically typed in commands.  The view of the beam shifted as the ship shifted and changed direction, but it hadn't been quick enough.  In fact, it had worked to the beam's favor, the belly of the ship briefly exposed to it.

There was a flash of yellow light and a roar before the entire ship lurched as if it had been hit by an explosive.  Strapped down, Hot Rod barely moved in his seat, though the intense shaking made him cry out.  Sigma fell to his knees, his hands and arms braced on the console.

The proximity alarms changed to the low blare indicating a hull breach. Somewhere deep in his processor, Hot Rod noted that he might have become too familiar with that sound.

“He's out of his cortex!” Sigma howled, then slapped a palm on the intercom button.  “All available units! Get to the breach, and destroy the intruder!”

There was a whirl of activity from outside the bridge doors.  Sigma pulled himself to his feet as well and his hands flew over the console, one of the monitors changing to show the damage to the ship, which he swore at again.  Behind him, Hot Rod's face glowed happily, and the cuffs rattled as he squirmed in his chair.

“Sunstreaker!”

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Sideswipe's laughter rang in his audials.  His own voice groaned.

**(...Stupid.)**

**(But totally worth it!)** Sideswipe cackled.

**(Next time, _I'm_ coming up with the dumb plans.)**

And a dumb plan it had been.  He'd easily pierced through the cruiser's deck plating at the velocity he'd been going.  His armor was made to take an impact like this.  But that didn't mean that it didn't hurt like the Pit.

What he should have been doing, if he was actually planet-hopping, was floating in space after slingshotting himself out of the atmosphere, recovering from the extreme strain on his frame.  Many of Sunstreaker's systems were still rebooting.  He was vaguely aware that he was lying on the floor, probably in the cargo hold, given that he wasn't half-sprawled across a table or someone's berth, or face-first in a console.  His left foot felt funny.

Oh, it was still hanging out of the hole he'd made and was dangling in space.  He pulled it in, then groaned as he pushed himself to his hands and knees.  As he did, he happened to glance down at his arms.

“Aw, scrap.”

The massive acceleration through the atmosphere had burned at his plating.  The armor was intact, and his HUD informed him that it wasn't too badly damaged, other than being singed, but his finish was _ruined._

To the Pit with Sideswipe and his stupid ideas.

No, this had been _his_ idea.

...What was he doing again?

His processor restarted as he shook his head several times to clear it.

Oh, right.  Rescuing Hot Rod.

The doors on the far side of the room slid open, and wheels ran across the floor towards him.  Sunstreaker lifted his head and squinted at the hazy forms of more of the silver robots that had inhabited Sigma's compound.  All of them had their arms out, weapons borne at him.

“Oh, good.  Just what I needed.”

Shakily getting to his feet, he massaged his knuckles in his palms, and grinned evilly at the drones rolling towards him.

“Warm-up practice.”

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Sigma pounded his fist on the side of the monitor, the screen briefly flashing white lines before resetting.  “The frag is going on down there?! Have any of you taken him down yet?!”

“They can't answer if Sunstreaker's tearing them apart,” Hot Rod helpfully informed him, his voice bordering on cheery.  “You know that he'll be up here at any breem.”

“I know that!” Sigma snapped at him.  

Hot Rod grinned.  “You could, y'know, let me go, before Sunstreaker sees me tied down like this and gets _really_ mad.”

“Do me a favor, youngling, and be quiet.”

Sunstreaker growling at him had long since stopped scaring him, and Sigma's had even less of an effect.  Hot Rod eagerly watched the monitors, a map of the ship showing the movements of the small army of robots that the noblemech had at his command swarming through the ship towards a single, moving point.  Whenever a drone encountered this point, its signal vanished.  The robots were thinning out rapidly, and the blip they were trying to converge on was working its way through the halls.

“What kind of a monster--”

Hot Rod's face fell. “He's not a monster! He's coming to find me, and you put stuff in his way!”

“That doesn't excusing the terrifying, maddening behavior of--”

The bridge door opened.  Sigma had a beat of time to stare at the entrance, horrified, while Hot Rod struggled to turn around in his seat.

“Sunstreaker!” he cried out excitedly.

Something sailed through the air, and Sigma let out an unmechly yelp as a piece of a drone crashed into the console next to him. He dove to the side, missing another sparking piece of a robot arm, rolled, and transformed his hand into a blaster as he came up near Hot Rod's chair.  Sunstreaker acted first, firing into the room before the noblemech could drive him back.  Sigma ducked, and Hot Rod shrieked as one of the shots clipped his chair, barely missing him.

“Stop!” Sigma roared.  “You'll hit Hot Rod!”

Sunstreaker immediately obliged him, the room ringing in the silence after the short fire-fight, though the Autobot's blaster continued to hum dangerously.  “Let him go, Sigma.”

“We already spoke about this, Sunstreaker.”  Sigma carefully shuffled forward, kneeling next to Hot Rod's chair, leaning over the youngling slightly as he peered around him.  The youngling hissed and swore up at him, realizing that he was being used as a shield, but there was nothing he could do to escape.  “You agreed that Hot Rod would be better off with me.”

“I had a change of spark.  Let him go.”

“Sunstreaker?”  Hot Rod called out, wishing that he could see the other mech.

“I'm here,” Sunstreaker reassured him.  “We'll be going back to our ship soon.  Hang tight.”

“Not like I can go anywhere.”  He rattled the cuffs.

“...So this is how you treat younglings, Sigma?” Sunstreaker hissed.  “If they don't agree with you, you tie them up and drag them away?”

“Only when they are poorly-behaved after impressing on a violent maniac.”

“He's going to try to reformat me!”

The Autobot's engine reved dangerously at that, and his voice turned low.  “You're no better than those fragging Neutrals!  You'd completely undo who he is, just to make him more like...like Damper?!”

“I want what's best for him, and if I have to take away the memories that make him war-like, than so be it!”

A light on the console beeped for attention.  It was out of Sunstreaker's line of sight, but both Sigma and Hot Rod glanced at it.  It took them both a moment to realize what it was, and when they did, horror dawned on the orange youngling's face, while the noblemech smirked.

The Decepticon ship that Triage had summoned had arrived, and was hailing them.

“Sunstreaker, there's Decep--”

Sigma's hand clamped down over Hot Rod's mouth.  The youngling buzzed angrily through his fingers and tried to shake him away, but to no avail.

“What are you doing to him?!”

“Keeping him quiet,” Sigma answered.  

“Let him GO.”  A shot was fired at the floor by the chair, making both of them jump.  “I won't ask you again.  Hot Rod!”

The youngling tried again to warn him of the approaching ship, but couldn't get anything past Sigma's palm besides muffled grunts.

“Sunstreaker, be reasonable.  You and I talked about what would happen if Hot Rod continued to stay with you, and you agreed that he would do best under MY care.  And now you dare to attack me, wrecking my ship, tearing apart my drones, after all I've done for you--”

Hot Rod struggled harder.  The longer that Sigma stalled, the more likely that the Decepticons would realize that something was wrong, and approach the ship.  If they tried to board...

Sunstreaker sounded like he was already worn out.  And the Decepticons would attack him mercilessly.

He had to do something.

He jerked his head backwards, thumping it on the back of the chair, dazing himself for half a second.  It hurt, but it dislodged Sigma's hand just enough.  Before he could clamp his fingers down on his mouth again, Hot Rod jumped forward, and bit down on his hand as hard as he could.

“YEOWCH!!”

The hand was ripped away, and something cracked against the side of his helm.  This time his HUD was flooded with errors, his optics rebooting and coming back with the hazy image of an infuriated Sigma bearing over him, his hand still carrying through the backswing.

“You little brat! I'll have your--!”

And then he was gone, distracted long enough to be body-slammed to the side by a roaring flash of yellow.  The room shook with the impact of the two mechs hitting the floor, then was filled with shouts and the crash of metal-on-metal from frantic punches.  Someone's blaster discharged, the wild shot hitting the ceiling and leaving a spherical burn. Hot Rod ducked his head down protectively, even though the shot had been nowhere near him.

They were behind him, then beside him, the warrior and noblemech rolling over one another as they tried to get the upper hand.  Sigma had his size and weight to his advantage, but Sunstreaker had fought in countless battles, and sprang up, bringing the end of his blaster towards Sigma's prone form.  He was thrown off as the loosened red cloak was hurled at him, surprising him briefly as he pulled it out of his face, and that was all the time Sigma needed to scramble up and tackle him.  They went down again, rolling, one of them hitting a wall and crying out in pain.

Hot Rod tried to watch as best that he could, but the cuffs and safety straps prevented him from doing more than turning his head left and right.  Out of the corner of his optics, he saw where they had stopped, and could just make out a patch of yellow hovering above a smear of dark blue.  The fighting had ceased suddenly, and he could hear both mechs panting, their fans kicked on, ventilations raspy.  Sunstreaker's blaster hummed dangerously, and the youngling could barely make out the yellow glow of the weapon charging to fire.

“Don't.”

“...Why not?”

“Not in front of him.  Please.”

Sunstreaker paused.  His blaster was still charged, ready to blast the mech under him, but he held off.  Hot Rod wiggled to try to get a better view.

Sigma's voice was quieter, and pleading.  “He's still just a youngling.  He's seen enough.”

“...He's seen worse,” Sunstreaker hissed, his voice barely heard by the orange mech's audials.

“But he doesn't have to see more, if given the choice.  Please.”

The Autobot considered him, his ventilations still heaving and rasping, the same as the noblemech pinned under him.

Metal shifted.

“Get up.”

Hot Rod heard Sigma groan with an effort, then footsteps, one heavy and limping, the other strong and marching.  They headed for the door, away from him.  No matter what he did, he could not look over any further, and squirmed around in frustration.

He heard an airlock cycle.  Metal was shoved.

A mech screamed.

The airlock cycled again, and all was quiet.  The only sound left was the Autobot's slowing ventilations.

“...Sunstreaker?”

Hearing Hot Rod's tentative call, feet rushed back into the room.  Black hands hurriedly undid the chair's safety straps, then moved behind him to grip the stasis cuffs.

“Hold your arms apart, and don't move.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

He held perfectly still, his wrists held apart as much as he could.  Something hissed in the air, a knife, and then the cuffs slackened and broke away, falling to floor behind the chair.  As Hot Rod brought his hands forward to rub his sore wrists, Sunstreaker came around in front oh his chair, his blue optics wide, immediately going for the new dent in the side of the youngling's helm.

“Are you alright?”

Hot Rod's answer was to crash into him, bear-hugging his torso.  Sunstreaker grunted, but let himself be squeezed, returning the gesture and pulling him out of his chair and to his feet.  Hot Rod's vocalizer croaked as he gripped the edges of his armor plating.

_”You said that you would stop being an aft.”_

The Autobot tightened his grip around him too, air huffing through his vents as he was scolded by a youngling.

“I know.  I'm sorry.”

“Don't you EVER do that again!”

“I won't.”

“Aft.”

“Yep.”

Hot Rod burrowed his face further into the golden mech's chestplate.  After a moment, though, he started to giggle.  Sunstreaker lifted an eye-ridge as he stared down at him.

“What?”

“...You smell like charcoal.”

Hissing, Sunstreaker pulled away from him, his expression now furious, despite Hot Rod's relieved grin beaming up at him.

“And you're helping to clean this.”

“I-It's not my fault that you burned yourself!”

"That's not fair."

Hot Rod cackled, his vocalizer hitching, and before the Autobot could protest further, he was hugging him again, just thankfully that he _could_ hug him again.  Sunstreaker's engine snarled, and was completely ignored, the youngling smiling to himself, briefly enjoying the older mech's presence once more.

Briefly.

The console beeped again, and both of them looked up.  Hot Rod's optics grew huge.

“Those are Decepticons!”

“What?!”

“They—Triage called the Decepticons before we lifted off! He told them that they could have the compound if they let Sigma's ship escape.  That must be them.  He also told them that there was an Autobot nearby.”

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed.  “...That son of a glitch.”

Hot Rod gulped as the console beeped a different tone, _insisting_ that someone pick up the comms.  “Now what?”

“Do they know that you're here?”

The youngling shook his head.  “Triage told them that it'd be him and Sigma leaving.”

“Gotcha.”  Sunstreaker put a finger over his lips, indicating for Hot Rod to stay quiet.  He nodded, and the golden mech reached over to the console and tapped at it.  The monitor indicated that Sunstreaker had set the comms to 'Audio Only,' and then there was a crackling, a hiss, and then an unfamilar voice boomed from the intercom.

“About slagging time! You know that you've got a huge hole in the belly of your ship?”

“Yeah...” Sunstreaker took a beat to collect himself, then answered as confidently as he could.  “One of these stupid robots decided that it was a good idea to stack weaponry on top of each other.  We'll be able to fix it mid-flight.”

“Wait, this isn't Triage.  Who is this?”

“This is Sigma of Therra-Revquis.”  The Autobot leaned over the console, his fingers gripping the edge tightly.  “Originally of the Celestial Towers of Iacon.”

“A noble brat.”

Sunstreaker wasn't sure if he should be offended.

“Whatever you like to call me.  Anyway, the compound is yours.  That Autobot is still hanging around the planet somewhere, though.  You probably want to scan the surface completely for him before you move in, so he doesn't take you by surprise.”

“That'll take joors, but noted.  Thanks for the tip.”

The audio feed was cut.  Sunstreaker vented a sigh of relief, though his optics stayed tight on the signal of the Decepticon warship passing them on its way to Therra-Revquis's surface.

“...They're probably scanning us,” he realized.  “Wave hello to the nice Decepticons, Hot Rod.”

Hot Rod smirked, and did so, his arms waving up and down above his head.  Sunstreaker, meanwhile, gestured rudely at the side of the ship where the warship was gliding past them.  When it was out of range, he immediately set the cruiser to auto-pilot, then grasped Hot Rod's hand.

“Let's go find a shuttle, and get back to our ship.  This one's got a hole in it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The hologram of the rotating galaxy hovered in the air above the bridge consoles.  Sunstreaker studied the highlighted points on the star map, one of his hands absently polishing his forearm with a cloth.

Hot Rod would still be teasing him at looking and smelling like a piece of charcoal for a long time, though.

Said youngling was standing next to him, gawking at the map.  “So...those are Autobot outposts?”

“Notable ones, anyway.  See how they're mostly grouped around this one galaxy arm?”  Sunstreaker pointed a black finger at the cluster, and Hot Rod nodded.

“...You think...?”

“All those resources that the Decepticons have been gathering?  Here's where they were heading.  I thought we were lucky that we weren't hitting any Decepticon patrols.  The truth is that their presence out here is weak, even though this is their territory.  That's a risky move, to shift nearly all of your troops to one spot.”

Tapping a button on the console nearby, the map zoomed in on the heavily-occupied quadrant.  There were hundreds of star systems grouped together, none of them immediately notable to the Autobot's processor.

“So there's something out there that the Decepticons really want,” Hot Rod said.  “Something that they're willing to risk most of their forces over.”

“And whatever it is, the Autobots want it too.”

The youngling looked up at him.  “An energon well?”

“...No, it's got to be bigger than that.  No energon well is worth this many resources.”  Putting the polishing cloth away, he crossed his arms over his chestplate as he stared at the hologram.  “I have no idea what's so special to warrant this much mechpower, or which system they're fighting over.  Whatever it is, it's fragging important.”

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“Several hundred—wait.”  Sunstreaker turned his optics to the youngling.  “You want to go?”

“That's where you'll probably find Sideswipe, right?”

The Autobot's tanks churned uncomfortably.

“...This is the worst of the fighting.  What we've seen so far have been skirmishes, not full-on battles.”

“You are _not_ leaving me behind,” Hot Rod said firmly, glaring up at him.

“Sigma's still floating around somewhere.  I could go find him, if you'd like.”

“That's not funny.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Aft.”

“Hmph.”

Both of their attentions returned to the map.  The hard-fought cluster was still a long distance away, and there were more outposts before they reached the worst of the fighting.  More battles.  More chances that they would be caught, or injured, or offlined.

Hot Rod leaned his head against Sunstreaker's side, prompting the Autobot to put an arm around him, the other resting confidently on his hip as he smirked at the challenge before them.

“While we fly, there's something I need to teach you.”

“What's that?”

“You know how to play cards fair enough now.  But I can't wait to see the look on Sideswipe's face when you win the first round.”

Hot Rod grinned cheekily at that, and barely noticed his spark pulsing happily at the feeling of genuine warmth washing over it from the nearby mech.

**Author's Note:**

> About Sunstreaker and Hot Rod's sparks 'hearing' one another, here's what I figure. Sigma was correct about Hot Rod's spark reaching out for guidance and security from Sunstreaker's, needing him if his carrier is not present. Hot Rod is somewhat aware of this, and thinks that it's normal, which it is, but Sunstreaker hasn't noticed because it's far weaker than his bond with Sideswipe. Any other mech would have picked up that their spark is behaving oddly, but for Sunstreaker, odd spark behavior as related to his twin is normal, and he doesn't have a way to associate it with Hot Rod's presence as opposed him somehow picking up a signal from Sideswipe. Luckily, his spark knows what to do, even if his processor doesn't.
> 
> As for Sigma, here's the theme song of his fate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNoXsV2X7bs


End file.
